


Urdle 43

by thatoldbroad



Series: Urdle 43 [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Consentacles, Fantasy Sex, M/M, Pornstars, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatoldbroad/pseuds/thatoldbroad
Summary: Urdle 43 is an unlikely name for a porn star, let alone a successful one.(In which Timmy is a studio twink turned custom-porn entrepreneur. Love, hijinks, and turmoil ensue - not necessarily in that order.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> “Urdle, still my pet. Urdle the turtle. Growing up was 43rd and Ninth. I was on 43rd that’s Hell’s Kitchen - ” - Timothee Chalamet
> 
> “That’s your name. Your porno name is Urdle 43rd.” - Interviewer
> 
> “Oh my god. Wait, so, yeah I know that. It’s the first name of your pet followed by your street. Urdle 43. Oooooo, Urdle 43. Urdle 43, yeah, I like that a lot. If I showed up for Urdle 43 it wouldn’t be, like, too surprising.” - Timothee Chalamet
> 
> _
> 
> Also inspired by the podcast, "The Butterfly Effect."

PROLOGUE

One minute he's on his stomach studying for his calculus test, chewing mindlessly on a piece of gum and twirling it ‘round and ‘round his finger, and the next he’s flipped onto his back and - tentacles. His mouth opens on a scream, but it doesn’t it make it out. A feeler slithers in. He gags.

Panic grips him. He moves to yank the thing out of his mouth and _can’t_. He’s pinned. His wrists are bound above him and his hips are cinched tight in place. His ankles are wrenched apart. _No._ He knows what’s coming. Has jerked off to hours of it on pornhub.com. Category: Hentai. Is this karmic retribution?

There’s a tickle at his right nipple. He jumps, startled. Aroused. He’s sensitive there, and when a second appendage, what feels like a barely-there, whisper-thin ghost of a vine, burrows under his shirt and snakes up to coil around the left, and both tendrils flicker at once - he arches. Seizes up like a cardiac patient on an operating table. 

_More._

No, no, no. He thrashes, or tries to. But he’s in a vice-like grip, and he does _not_ want more. Or does he? The tentacles make the decision for him. He’s licked, or whatever the equivalent is of what’s happening. A delicate lapping at the very tips of his areolas, at first, that becomes insistent, turns encompassing, into strokes that bathe his chest in a thick substance. And, finally, sucking. The sensation of two mouths closing and suctioning to a moist center. His toes curl. His eyes roll back. 

“Fuck,” he manages past the tentacle thrusting in and out of his mouth.

He should struggle. Fight. And he does make another weak attempt. But the mouths - _tentacles_ \- working at his chest have made his limbs leaden and thinking near impossible. Like: sick, this is sick. _I’m sick._ How can he be enjoying this? Logic that brushes his mind. But it fails to culminate to resistance, even when he looks down and catches sight of the action. The furtive motion under his shirt, the slight tenting at his nipples, the catch and release of the tendrils suckling. He’s transfixed by it. Mesmerized. 

And he is _so hard_.

He’s barely aware of the tentacle at his ass. Doesn’t even realize that it’s there until it flowers at his hole, until it licks-like, slick and _forked_ \- _what the hell?_ But then - oh, god. Oh, _god_.

_

 

From: D.O. Man (ilikeitweird_69@gmail.com)  
Date: April 26, 2018, 3:43 AM  
To: Urdle 43 (urdle43@urdlethewhiteurkel.com)  
Subject: Tentacle Rape

Urdle,

The homemade look of the tentacles was a nice detail - you know how I like it “vintage." That vacuum attachment, for example, and the dildo you duct-taped to the end of it? Genius. And the stripped-down-to-basics staging was so reminiscent of Lars von Trier’s Dogville that it elevated the experience to, dare I say it? Art. It was art. _You_ are an artist.

I bought it. The surprise turned to shock, turned to terror, turned to arousal. You executed each precisely and yet so naturally. I was hypnotized by your performance. I always am. But you outdid yourself in this video. The background disappeared. That’s why I thought of Dogville. You made a match-stick like set believable, because you inhabited the role. Truly and absolutely. "School boy raped by an alien monster and _likes it_ " - served exquisitely to order.

That uniform is perfect. Those knee-high socks. That button-up, short-sleeved shirt. And that bowtie? So cute. Wear it again, please. But don’t forget the glasses next time. Your eyes are beautiful and I can stare at them for hours (your cock, too, yum!), and precisely why you need the glasses. They’re distracting. If you were a lesser actor, I wouldn’t buy that someone as pretty as you could be such a . . . dork. And dork is the Urkle 43 brand, not that I have to remind you.

But I am reminding you to wear your glasses. I won’t hold it against you, this time, but - well, I am a paying customer.

Next, have you seen Labyrinth? God bless David Bowie and may he rest in peace. He was magnificent in the movie. But, no, I don’t want you to role-play a scene with Jareth the Goblin King (Bowie’s role, FYI), if that’s what you’re thinking. I want you to play Jennifer Connelly - the scene where Sarah falls down a hole and is caught by “helping hands.” From muppet.wikkia.com, if you don’t know what I’m referring to:

_Helping Hands occupy a vertical corridor through which Sarah inadvertently falls in Labyrinth. Made up of hundreds of painted latex gloves, modeled after Jane Gootnik’s hand. The Helping Hands communicate by coming together to form faces (generally using 5 to 7 hands). They also hold Sarah in place while she decides whether she’d like to go back up the corridor, or continue downward. When she chooses down, the hands drop her, and it is revealed that the bottom of their shaft leads to an oubliette._

That Jim Henson is a kinky bastard. No accident that his muppets inspired a simulated sex scene on a Broadway stage. If you haven’t seen Avenue Q, go. You can still catch it at New World Stages, where it’s had a fortuitous run for many, many years. 

But I digress.

Don’t be loyal to the scene. I don’t care if the hands make faces or talk. Or if you replicate the plot. What’s important is your _emotions_. Confusion, which you do so well, when you’re caught in the midst of your fall. Surprise, when the hands begin to grope you. Fear. God, I love _that_. You, afraid, when the hands _go places_ : give me that. And a little resistance.

It’s a tightrope, isn’t it? But you always manage to walk it successfully. I think sometimes that your talent is lost in this business. That you should be _out there_ in the world, walking among the stars on earth. 

But then, where would I get my wank material?

And, by the way, I would not have minded seeing the back of your co-stars’ heads as they licked and sucked and fucked your nipples raw. Don’t blur it out next time. 

Spanking you in my thoughts,

D.O. Man

_

Timmy shuts his laptop. _Art. It was art._ What a pretentious twat. And only a pretentious twat would quote himself. But the man _pays_. Triple the amount of his normal clientele. And enough for this last video that he can buy groceries for the week, save a portion for rent, even after he divvies up what he owes Daniel and Ansel. 

And time. Money begets time. And he has a new client. Ollie Summer, keepingitsimple@gmail.com, who wrote: 

I have a strange request, but you must be used to strange requests. This, though - this might top (no pun intended) them all. Then again, what do I know? I don’t normally (or ever) solicit porn stars. Thing is, I don’t want to see you fucked. Or fucking. Both you do beautifully - and _you_ are beautiful - but I don’t want sex. I want to watch you _just be_. Eating, sleeping, brushing your teeth. Scratching your balls, whatever. I want a slice of your life. And not simulated. No acting. _Don’t_ think of it as performance art. Jim Carrey in the Truman Show? Be that guy and I’ll be your captive audience.

“Not a problem,” was Timmy’s reply. 

He sets up his iPhone on a tripod and attaches to it a wide lens. The easiest preparation he has ever had to do. Then, he gets down to the business of the day: Urdle 43, in the role of Timothee Chalamet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tentacle porn is _really_ hard to write. Lesson learned.
> 
> And your kudos and comments mean the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Urdle the White Urkel manifested from a script that directed Robbie Drake - Grabby Awards nominee for Twink Performer of 2016 and Co-Winner of the Hottest Rim award, thanks to the threesome in The Guitar Student - to don a pair of flood pants, suspenders, and glasses. The scene synopsis: virgin nerd gets gangbanged. And Timmy, the man behind the curtain, inventor of Robbie Drake, could not _not_ think of Steve Urkel.

Steve Urkel of the Urkel Dance. He who spoke in a smurf-like voice and whose catchphrase was: did I do that? Said each time he broke something, or knocked something to do the floor, or created yet another catastrophe, which was in every episode he appeared in Family Matters. A nerd icon in African-American television history and, in Timmy’s humble opinion, one of the greatest nerds in fiction of all time. 

From Urkel to Urdle, the name of Timmy’s turtle. It was a short leap. A fan tribute, if somewhat of (totally) an appropriation. To this day, he can break out the dance on cue.

_If you want to do the Steve Urkel dance,_  
_All you have to do is hitch up your pants,_  
_Bend your knees, and stick out your pelvis,_  
_I’m telling you, baby, it’s better than Elvis!_

And much like Urkel, Urdle was meant to be a one-time character spin-off of Robbie Drake. His immense, literally overnight, popularity boggled.

"They are _thirsty_ for it, bitch," said Daniel Kaluuya, Timmy's best and richest friend, to Timmy at the height of Urdlemania. He is Timmy's best friend because he was Timmy's scene partner way, way back when Timmy was barely past the threshold of _not_ a virgin, trembling on his first shoot, and the fluffer who was fingering Timmy bare, in preparation for the scene, was being a total dick. _Stop being a baby and lick them clean._ Daniel, who overheard, punched the guy, which, naturally, earned him Timmy’s loyalty and puppy-like adoration for life. And he is Timmy's richest friend because he parlayed his very short, but well-paid stint in the business into real money. As in, money that replicated to millions: bitcoin _before_ it was bitcoin. Which also made him Timmy's smartest friend.

It took Timmy's best, richest, and smartest friend to break it down: "Your big, deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes, the way you hunch down like you're doing right now, like you’re down to your last pair of shoes and a plastic fork, your skinny fucking shoulders, that wounded look you get - like right now when I said ‘your skinny fucking shoulders’ - or when someone fucks in too hard. _Plus_ the nerd look. You are niche material for the deep pocket weirdos. _That_ is your sweet spot. The money-maker, baby. And you should invest in it, _now_."

Timmy took Daniel’s advice. He had no choice. Robbie Drake, it-boy of the moment and hottest commodity in twink land, reached an oversaturation point. It was basic economics: the services supplied exceeded the quantity demanded. He became _too_ popular. The producers, who banked it big on his (slightly) bubbly bottom, cycled and recycled him on the gay porn circuit - Cockyboys, Helix Studios, Falcon, Lollipop Twinks, Bel Ami. Robbie Drake was in _everything_ and _everywhere_.

“This old hag again? His hole has been busted in so many times it’s starting to look like dried fruit or my mama’s fake leather purse from the 60’s. Some fresh material, _please_ ,” said a commenter on Queer Me Now, following a feature on Robbie Drake and Sebastian Lure’s much-hyped scene in _Fap Fap Land: the Musical_.

_Burn._

Thus, Robbie Drake faded into relative obscurity, his year-long run as super bottom extraordinaire (occasionally versatile) dried up in viewership, even on the free porn sites where his videos descended from “Most Watched” to _eh_. And from his ashes rose like a phoenix, in suspenders: Urdle 43. An unlikely name for a porn star and certainly not a name destined for porn star success. And while “success” may be a bit of a stretch, Timmy is paying his monthly rent on time. He is down to eating ramen only three times a week - from a styrofoam container, not the upscale cuisine that people line up for in the East Village. His debt to his ex-manager, the man who tripled down on Timmy’s then blossoming acting career and paid for his flights, hotels, supplementary acting classes, clothes, toilet paper, face masks, and bagels from Tompkins Square, is decreasing, incrementally, but he’s getting there. He’s even opened a savings account and, fingers crossed, may be back in school as soon as next year, finally afford the tuition at Hunter College, even if just part-time.

Another perk is that Urdle 43 shoots less frequently than Robbie Drake. People pay big for private, novelty, custom-made porn, the couture of the industry. Timmy doesn’t have to hustle like he did as Robbie. And as Urdle 43, his hole doesn't even have to be “busted in” each time. At least fifteen percent of his inventory is made up of nonsexual orders. Like today, he’s filming an excerpt from S.E. Hinton’s _The Outsiders_ , the young adult classic that features a cast of almost entirely beautiful young men in various stages of angst. It’s central plot involves a rivalry between two gangs - The Greasers, the poor kids, and the Socs, their douchey, privileged counterparts. The novel is replete with injuries, emotional and physical, and explicit expressions of male platonic love. A combination that is apparently a perfect magnet for female readership. And it is a repeat female fan, with a life-long obsession with _The Outsiders_ , who orders the video.

 

From: Cherry Bomb (sodaismyguy@gmail.com)  
Subject: Johnny Cade Gets A Beating

Francis Ford Coppola did a shit film adaptation and that television series was a waste. (This is how she starts every email and ends it as part of her signature line.)

I want you in exquisite pain. Plenty of beautiful man tears. A lot of shaking and stuttering, you’re really good at that.

You will be Johnny Cade - “picture a little dark puppy that’s been kicked too many times and is lost in a crowd of strangers . . . the gang’s pet, everyone’s kid brother” - when he’s found in a grass field beaten by the Socs. Please see pages 29-31 of the book for reference. Specifically:

_“Johnny?” Soda lifted him up and held him against his shoulder. He gave the limp body a slight shake._

_Johnny didn’t open his eyes, but there came a soft question. “Soda?”_

_“Yeah, it’s me,” Sodapop said. “Don’t talk. You’re gonna be okay.”_

_“There was a whole bunch of them,” Johnny went on, swallowing, ignoring Soda’s command. “A blue Mustang full . . . I got so scared . . . .” He tried to swear, but suddenly started crying, fighting to control himself, then sobbing all the more because he couldn’t. I had seen Johnny take a whipping with a two-by-four from his old man and never let out a whimper. That made it worse to see him break now. Soda just held him and pushed Johnny’s hair back out of his eyes. “It’s okay, Johnnycake, they’re gone now. It’s okay.”_

 

Timmy sets his iPhone on the tripod and aims it at the center of his studio, where he’ll be constructing the props and staging the scene. Ollie Summer, a now thrice-returned customer, was thrilled with the last video Timmy sent - three hours of him preparing for the Labyrinth shoot: breaking apart individual cardboard boxes and taping them together; painting; purchasing black latex gloves online; then quickly having to follow-up with a frantic call to the company to switch them from _blue_ , the color he actually ordered instead of black.

Ollie’s feedback had been generous:

A behind-the-scenes peek - amazing! So much fun! Thank you. You are enthralling. The world seemed to disappear around you when you were focused on those boxes. It made me think of what you must be like when you’re having a conversation. You must make the person feel as if they’re the most important thing in the world. And that phone call! Would it be too terrible to say that I found you adorable, when you were panicking? Sorry, it was cute. Like, really cute. And you were such a darling to that customer rep - better you than me, the short-tempered yeller - how could she not fix the order for you? Also, you have a tendency to tuck your tongue into the corner of your mouth when you’re concentrating or you’re nervous. Did you know? It's very endearing. In all, a more vibrant episode than your last video, although I enjoyed that, too. Tremendously. Though, yes, it must have been disconcerting to watch yourself surf the internet on your laptop for hours when you were editing. Can you imagine what life was like before the internet? _I_ can't. And I'm certainly old enough to remember. Heck, I remember when Apple computers were square-like and bulky and came in different colors - I owned one in turquoise! I did get a nostalgic taste of a tech-free life a few years ago, during a summer I spent in Europe. I remember it all as if it were yesterday . . . . I look forward to your next video.

How could Timmy not indulge him and give him more of the same?

He picks up a package from his desk - the fake grass he bought from Amazon to mimic the field and a tube of red paint to bloody it up. He plans to lie on it, writhing in pretend agony and shedding an ocean of “beautiful man tears.” As usual, his eyes catch on the label before he rips the package open. Addressed to Timothee Chalamet - now there’s a name that was intended for the stars. Top billing in the credits of a Hollywood film. Or so his teachers from La Guardia drama school had prophesied. If only he had a quarter of the savvy then that he does now. He might have sooner realized that he was a dime a dozen, a drop in the bucket, no more talented than the average somewhat-talented joe, and not bothered with the chase. A very expensive, time-consuming, emotionally draining chase. And that his teachers, bless them, were just projecting their own unrequited dreams onto an ordinary boy.

The phone rings, startling Timmy. He looks up and straight into the camera, and is hit with the strangest sense of deja vu. The memory of doing the same for a film - a _real_ film, an indie coming-of-age - surfaces, when he broke the fourth wall, his homage to Boyhood, while staring into a fire and ruminating on lost love. The movie that was supposed to _make_ his career and ended it instead. A sharp ache flares at the recollection, but quickly snuffs out to irritation when the phone rings again. Correction: _quacks_ again. The annoying noise gives away the caller. Ansel gay-for-pay-and-I-only-top Elgort, his oldest friend and who’s own promising matinee-idol brand tanked in one fell swoop thanks to a thoughtless tweet. So Ansel.

Timmy sighs and shuts off the camera. 

“Hey fucker!” Ansel screams into the phone when Timmy answers. He is nothing at all like the sweet, sensitive Sodapop Curtis that he’ll be playing. “What time should I come over?” As if they hadn’t set the schedule weeks earlier.

Timmy glances down at his watch. “Two o’clock,” he says, knowing that Ansel-time will translate it to three. But he has no complaints. After all, the next three hours are reserved for Ollie Summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like it, let me know it. Muchas gracias.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thanks to all of you who have been leaving comments (and kudos!) - truly, it's been my fuel. And a special shout out to etal for, "I'm still laughing about it every five minutes." I stole it - hope you don't mind.
> 
> Second, I am petrified of letting you invested ones down as you continue. I'll do my best not to.

Urdle shivers. The hands are _cold_. He hadn't expected that. _Of course_ he hadn't. He’s in a hole - tunnel? - that appeared, literally, under his feet, out of nowhere, and is leading, he’s convinced, to Dante’s seventh circle of hell where he will probably grow boils or be eaten slowly by lava or have leeches attach to his scrotum for all eternity, or something equally vicious and humiliating. But before he gets there, there are _hands_. Hundreds of them, jutting from the walls, ensuring his humiliation starts now, on his descent. They are molesting him, literally: hands on his crotch, hands on his butt, hand behind the joint of his knee, wrapped around an ankle, binding a wrist, hitched under an armpit, poking his navel, cupping him on the chest like he has breasts. And they are being very _thorough_. All of it is over-the-clothes touching, which is about as far as Urdle has gone with any man, boy, or thing other than his own hand. And he is pink - or likely a five-alarm fire red - and sweaty from it, edged at confusion and frustration. The hands on his chest, in particular, have been kneading his nipples for at least fifteen minutes.

And they talk. And sing. Five of the fuckers linked to make a face that eerily resembled Liza Minelli (must’ve been the clown-like spikes around the eyes) to serenade him with _All That Jazz_ , and the two hands at his chest stopped their fondling momentarily to join in and get _jazzy_. And while Urdle might be a gay nerd possessing of some stereotypical gay ticks, like an effeminate swish in the hips when he walks, he is not that kind of gay. He _hates_ musicals. Despises them. And these bastards have somehow intuited that, just as they intuited that a finger poke in the ear is to Urdle like a stick poking into a beehive. His head is buzzing with fury. These hands are dicks. There's a hand on his dick.

There. Is. A. Hand. On. His. Dick. A bolt of fear shoots up his spine. That is under-the-clothes territory, where no man and no hand have ever gone before. Even his own hand has felt wrong exploring there, like it’s dipping into a cookie jar that has been strictly forbidden before dinner. He would freeze in place - his automatic response to a threat - if he wasn’t already frozen, so he’s helpless to do anything but drop his mouth open, gobsmacked. A finger, of course, enters it. Gleefully. As gleefully as the hand on his dick is massaging it, stroking its length, encasing its girth in a tight, but flexing grip. His testicles are rolled in a broad palm like a pair of stress balls. He is slipping, going limp, his legs turning to jelly. And his eyes are crossing - then just as quickly, suddenly uncross, shocked, because there is a finger prodding his hole.

Nope, no, uh-uh, and hell no. _That_ place is strictly Exit Only. As in: Do Not Enter. As in, does he actually need a fucking sign?

The finger slides in. 

A sign! He definitely needs a sign! Stop, yield, do not cross here, one way street only! _Please god send me a sign._

"Cut, cut, fucking cut!" 

The hand on Timmy’s dick withdraws. That was not the sign he was begging for. 

Daniel sighs and follows suit, removing his hand from Timmy’s ass.

“I have a cramp,” Ansel complains.

“Again?”

“You’re heavy! I have to masturbate you _and_ support you - it’s asking a lot. Why can’t you just sit on a stool like Daniel told you to?”

“We tried that. He can’t finger me while I’m sitting on my asshole. It’s a physical impossibility.”

“You could squat over the stool, Tim,” Daniel supplies. “Use the base to hold you up so Ansel doesn’t have to have a hand on your ankle.”

They had tried that, too, but it was Timmy who had cramped that time.

“I hate this,” Timmy grumbles. They’ve been at it for hours. Which means he’s been at the edge for hours - at the edge of the edge - and if having blue balls was exactly like having Ebola, well, he’d be dead by now. He shares this especially poignant observation with the group. 

“Bro.” Daniel laughs. “You are _grumpy_ today.”

Ansel nods. “Yeah, there’s been a lot of Timmy-bleed into Urdle. You might want to dial back some of that aggression.” He looks at Daniel meaningfully.

Daniel, catching on, says, “You mean at like - _come on babe_ \- ”

“ _\- why don’t we take the town -_ ”

“ _And all that jazz_ ,” they sing in unison, closing it with a flourish of jazz hands.

Unfortunately, the nearest item to Timmy is not a boot, or a rock, or the metal flashlight he keeps under his bed. Had it been, it would be sailing in mid-air at this moment headed for Ansel’s head. Daniel, he would have spared because - it’s Daniel. As it is, he settles for two spare latex gloves by his feet and snaps them at their crotches. “You’re assholes.”

“At your service,” Daniel replies.

“Not mine.” Ansel shakes his head. “Strictly a top.”

“And yet you’re the one that came up with the Liza Minella gag,” Timmy retorts.

“Okay, okay, peanut gallery,” Daniel interrupts before Ansel can retort back. “You - ” he points at Timmy. “Why are you so distracted today?" He gets a glimmer in his eye. "Let me guess, Ollie Summer.”

“I’m not distracted,” Timmy denies and crosses his arms over his chest - the universal body language for: _yep, you got me_. The truth is that Timmy hasn’t been able to stop thinking of Ollie and what he’s going to film for him next, and what Ollie’s response will be. He’s undecided between another video of him sleeping or one of him working on his application to Hunter College. Neither is more captivating than watching a tree grow, in Timmy’s opinion, but Ollie is easily pleased. More than that, he _delights_ at Timmy’s mundane activities. His last email bordered on overjoyed and if translated to emojis would appear as seventy-five percent heart-eyes. And all due to ten minutes of Timmy finding a spot of red-something on his shirt, and Timmy tasting the red-something thinking it was ketchup from lunch, to Timmy following it immediately with a furious scouring of his tongue with a paper towel while chanting “not ketchup! not ketchup!”, to Timmy cursing in English _and_ French because it was his last clean shirt, which he’d hoped he’d get at least two more days of wear out of, because he hates doing laundry. Ten minutes of a three-hour video. That’s all it took. 

So, fuck these two dickheads looking at him smugly. He’s not sorry he’s smiling. Not at all. And the sooner they get Timmy to a climax, the sooner he can complete Ollie’s film, and the sooner he’ll hear from Ollie again. 

"Ready?" Timmy says to Ansel.

Ansel answers with a sneeze.

Timmy looks at him suspiciously. "Are you sure you're not getting sick? That's a serious occupational hazard, man. We've talked about this."

"It's just allergies, dude. Don't get your panties in a twist."

And if it isn't, it's too late - Timmy's been breathing in contaminated air all day. Fucking Ansel. He pushes his irritation aside and gets back to work. When he’s situated - crouching over a stool - he sinks into the role with absolute concentration. He is Urdle 43:

_Hands are everywhere: stroking the inside of his thigh, tickling his ear, tracing his neck along the collar of his shirt, burrowing under his clothes. A hand envelops his dick. There’s a finger tracing his asshole. Fear trills up his spine and makes the hair on his arms stand. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, why it’s suddenly hard to breathe. To think. Why his stomach contracts when the hand on his dick strokes upward and lingers at the tip. The tingle of need. He gasps, when the finger breaches. His eyes feel huge on his face, comically wide he’s sure of it, but there’s nothing comical about what the finger in his ass is doing. Rubbing the walls of his rectum, stretching it when a second finger joins, then there’s prodding. The fingers locate something that makes him burn hot, makes him buck against the hands holding him in place, and clench down, but not to expel them, though that is his instinct and though nausea roils in his belly because all of this feels wrong. Dirty. And yet - and yet a word is forming at his open mouth. Please, when a third finger penetrates. Please, when a thumb presses in, catching at the rim. Please, please, please. For hours._

_

 

From: Ollie Summer (keepingitsimple@gmail.com)  
Re: sorry i’m sick

Hi Urdle,

I _do_ want to see you stuffed up, snotty, and coughing your lungs out. That's exactly what I signed up for. I mean, that video of you farting? While you were sleeping? I'm still laughing about it every five minutes. I'm glad you didn't edit that out. Warts and all, I told you. And I mean it.

Now to the serious stuff: don't feel bad that you can't send a video this week. Yes, I will miss our weekly connection, but I'll live and I'm not going anywhere. And while I'm entirely serious that I would be happy to receive a video of you sick with a cold and bronchitis - what an awful combination - it's not just because I have a creepy curiosity. It is _creepy_ , even if you do like it. Or don't mind. Two peas, you and I.

The thing is - it feels like I'm there with you. I had to take a deep breath before I typed that out. I don't know why that feels so . . . confessional, but - there is no fourth wall between us, when I'm watching you. I forget that I'm _just_ watching. It's like - like we're just keeping each other company, comfortable in a mutual silence. And I hope, sometimes, or a lot - a lot - that maybe you take some comfort from that, too. I know I'm paying you. I know I'm a client, not your friend. I have no illusions about the nature of our relationship. But I think - genuine human connection transcends, doesn't it? Like when you and the cashier at your neighborhood drug store start to recognize each other, and you remember that day that she was a little off because she just found out that her mom has cancer, and she remembers that shitty day at work that you told her about the last time you were there. 

And she's still doing her job ringing you up and packing your bag, but she cares, too, that you came out okay and right as rain on the other side of that shitty day, and you tell her you hope her mom's next round of chemo kills the cancer. And you even pray. You don't tell her about it, but you pray about her mom, that she lives. You pray to the universe because you don't believe in a god, but you do believe in life. Because a piece of her is in you, and you think that by adding to her hope, even from a distance, that it will make that tiniest bit of difference.

I take comfort in seeing that you're okay and right as rain. I would take comfort in seeing that you're not, because at least I would see it. And I can pretend that even though I'm here, on the other side of your lens, removed, the prayer occupying my head while I watch, that you be right as rain, that you be good and happy and complete, is reaching you.

Finally, I'm glad to hear that you took my advice and went to the urgent care clinic. I hate that you don't have health care. It's preposterous. But, please, if ever the decision is money or your health, please, please choose the latter. I realize I say that with the privilege of someone who doesn't have to worry about when I'm going to get paid next, but. But you are priceless.

Here's hoping you'll soon be decongested enough to not have to be sitting up to get some sleep. Keep drinking water and take vitamin C!

_

 

Three days later, Timmy sends Ollie Summer a video that is ten hours long, unedited, and though he only paid for three. And a month after that, after Timmy is mostly recovered and only a slight lingering cough remains, and when he is otherwise right as rain, he sends Ollie another video, wholly unsolicited. Free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A forewarning: there will be angst next chapter. But, as Timmy would say, it's all in service to the story.
> 
> Let me know what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because YMMV, I'm going to give a spoiler: Timmy receives a request from a father whose son has died. I pulled from a real life example and have done my best to be respectful. Needless to say, this chapter is sad and, maybe, even painful. I would understand if you skipped it. (Ahead - D.O. Man is making a reappearance in the near future, so there'll be a return to kink and snark and weird, quirky humor.)
> 
> Also, this chapter is directly inspired by the last seven minutes of the podcast, "The Butterfly Effect," which was unexpectedly moving. For those of you who have been wondering, yes there is a custom-porn industry. 
> 
> As always, thank you for your feedback. Please keep them coming.

The camera on Timmy's left tempts him yet again to turn toward it. Seek the encouragement of the person on the other side. _You can do it_ \- Timmy imagines him saying, leaned forward and arrested, projecting his complete, unwavering belief. And yet Timmy is on the fence. A part of him feels like he would be violating the sacred trust of the person who has asked him to film the scene he has been rehearsing for the last hour if he sends this video to Ollie. And despite that Ollie had declared “warts and all,” there are things that feel too personal, too intimate, still. Thoughts or habits or a careless act that are meant to be discovered, if at all, not simply given away. Like pain. Timmy has not shared pain.

Clients don’t ask for it. Pain is not what they pay for or want unless simulated in a BDSM scene or pretended in a rape roleplay. No one is interested in Timmy’s inner turmoil outside of it. The one time he tweeted something honest - _kinda sad today don’t know why_ \- the disinterest had been brutal, worse was the rejection, the followers he lost in seconds. He is a fantasy, not a person. A commodity. And those that consume him, who “like” his tweets when it’s a picture of his cock or his hole, who get off on the nasty things that he does or has done to him, are not interested in the person. They don’t care if he’s having a bad day. That has been his abiding guidance. The north star by which he constructs his output.

Until Ollie Summer. 

And until the email that landed in his inbox last week, unlike any email he has ever received.

 

From: S P (smsp48@gmail.com)  
Subject: Beautiful Boy

Dear Urdle, 

To give you some context for why I am writing, it might be helpful to start by reading a letter exchange I had with the wonderful writer, Cheryl Strayed. The letter is here: https://therumpus.net/2011/07/dear-sugar-the-rumpus-advice-column-78-the-obliterated-place/. I would provide you with a direct link, but, alas, this old man has not been able to retain how to do that no matter how many times my nieces have shown me. I know it’s a simple thing, but I have learned that even simple things can be made a casualty by time. You will have to copy and paste it, as I did, to read it. You don’t have to, but I hope you will.

I am still the man who wrote to Cheryl years ago, still sad, still angry, still wanting my son back. But I am also changed, less sad, less angry. I feel less like I’m incomplete even though the hole in my life caused by the death of my beautiful boy remains unclosed, unfilled, and the obliterated place left in its wake remains obliterated.

I turned seventy today. The gift I want to give myself is a gift from you, who stopped my heart when I saw your picture on a friend’s son’s laptop. I wasn’t snooping. It was open on the dining table and I just happened to pass by it on my way to the bathroom. You look so much like him. Needless to say, my obvious curiosity led to an awkward conversation that, like all tiny miracles in life, transformed me and my friend’s son. He came out to me. I hugged him - that is what I do now, when someone lets me in like that. I have come to realize that it not only takes courage to make one’s self be so vulnerable to judgment and rejection, but faith, too, in the other person’s capacity to accept. I wish I had been that person to my son, immediately, when he came out to me. I wasn’t, so now I try to be, to honor him.

And here I take my own leap of faith in you. I know what you do. I read a little about custom-porn videos and I understand that not all customers ask for sexual content - that would be me. I make no judgment about those who do and certainly do not judge you. But as you may have already guessed, I’m not interested in porn. Attached is a letter that I wrote, from my son to me. My therapist years ago had encouraged me to write it: _what do you wish he would say to you now, if he was still alive?_ I could not write it then and not until recently. I did not yet have the words. I was not yet ready for them. But I am now, and I would like them to be read aloud. I think I might finally deserve hearing them.

So, if you could, please - would you sit in front of the camera, cross-legged on the floor, and read this letter to me? I have also included in this email a very short video of my son that was shot on our last Christmas together. There is no sound, but the essence of him is captured. I would be so very grateful.

Sincerely,  
Beautiful Boy’s Dad

 

Timmy did cut and paste the link and read Beautiful Boy's Dad's letter to Cheryl and Cheryl's letter to Beautiful Boy's Dad. After he read them, he printed them. And after he printed them, he underlined in Cheryl's letter: “It’s your life. The one you must make in the obliterated place that’s now your world, where everything you used to be is simultaneously erased and omnipresent.”

Timmy knows the obliterated place. It is not the same place that Beautiful Boy’s Dad inhabits, wholly consumed by his son’s death, but Timmy’s obliterated place is also a place of loss, regret, where he is tormented by the circuitous mental undoing of choices that have led him to this life that he had not intended. It is a place where it hurts to remember who he had been, before life turned sideways. He does not want to reconcile with that person, that past-Timmy. But Timmy feels him reaching, like Beautiful Boy’s Dad reached then for Cheryl, and now for Timmy. And Timmy reaches back . . . .

He reaches down, touches knowledge earned from a training he has not accessed in years, then passes it. The compulsion to be creative, to imitate believably - he passes those, too. He reaches and reaches until he touches the soft place, where vulnerability lives, until he _is_ vulnerable, and then passes that, until he arrives at empathy, and there he makes his home. And there he meets past-Timmy and becomes _just Timmy_ , a boy who resembles the son of this man who loved him so much that Timmy can’t help but feel some of it for himself. 

He stares into the camera in front of him, the spare that Daniel had lent. He crosses his legs, places his elbows on his knees. And reads:

_"Dad,_

_I’m taking a page out of your book and writing this letter in list form. Not because I am writing about a hard subject like you did, but because I want to focus on the things I want to say to you without having to think too hard about how to say them. I think that’s more important than appearances, don’t you? So, here goes._

_1\. I love you. Even when I hated you I loved you. Even when you asked me: _but how can you not like girls?_ , when I came out to you. Then, too. And when you met M, after I finally got up the nerve to bring him around, and I could tell by the way that you responded to him how important it was to you for me to know that you were way, way, way past wondering why I don’t like girls. That you had stopped wondering. That the need to wonder had been succeeded completely by your love for me. That’s the other thing: I know you loved me, even when you didn’t understand me."_

Timmy pauses. His throat has tightened. He’s choked up again as he has each time when he has said those words. He hasn’t been able to make it past them without dissolving in tears. He glances at the camera to his left. Breathes in: _you can do this_. Breathes out: _I believe in you_. And manages to swallow down the lump in his throat.

He continues.

_"2. Love is bigger. It is bigger than loss, bigger than death. It is so big that it has the capacity to swallow them both, absorb them, and transform them, which you did. The obliterated place may remain obliterated, but you did as Cheryl told you to. You made a home there, without flinching away, without trying to change it. And guess what? You went on as you never have: you’ve done your best, you’ve been generous, you’ve been true. You’ve given comfort to others who thought they couldn’t go on and you allowed those unbearable days - those still sometimes unbearable days - to pass._

_3\. I’m proud of you. And here’s your chance to tell me the same! I’ll wait . . . .”_

Timmy smiles, and it’s not as difficult as he thought it would be. He thinks of Beautiful Boy in that clip that Dad sent and lets his smile widen, bright as it had been on that Christmas day, and just a bit crooked.

_“Thank you, Dad. That means the world to me._

_4\. I know I meant the world to you._

_5\. I know I still mean the world to you._

_6\. I forgive you._

_7\. I forgive you. _I forgive you._ Iforgiveyou. You see? You can stitch these words, too, into a quilt with all the times I could possibly say them and all the times you imagine me saying them, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Would it? Please, _please_ , please forgive yourself."_

Please, please, please forgive yourself, Timmy repeats quietly to himself, and doesn’t brush away the tears that fall.

_"8. Congratulations on finally marrying L! I wish I could’ve been there._

_9\. Actually, I was there. And I am here. I never left, even though I’m gone. You carry me, Dad. You have never stopped._

_10\. And don’t ever stop. Not even after you are where I am, because even then, I’ll still need you."_

And, finally, Timmy lets himself weep.

_

 

From: Ollie Summer (keepingitsimple@gmail.com)  
Subject: Beautiful Boy

Dear Beautiful Boy Behind Urdle,

1\. Thank you.

2\. _Thank you._ Thankyouthankyouthankyou. If I could, I would stitch these words into a quilt and wrap it around you.

3\. You do your best, you are generous, you are true. You’ve given comfort to me when I thought I couldn’t go on and you have made unbearable days, sometimes excruciatingly unbearable, pass easier.

4\. I also live in an obliterated place. 

5\. I, too, am still finding my way through it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last chapter was insanely difficult to write and I thank you, thank you, thank you lovely, wonderful commenters for letting me know how you thought and felt about it. I appreciate you all so much! And it makes me invested in getting this story right, for you (and for me). I will be responding soon.

Timmy looks south: Bed Bath & Beyond is at 18th Street on 6th Avenue. He looks north: Michael’s, the art supplies and crafts store, is on 22nd Street. And Timmy is standing mid-block between 20th and 21st Streets unable to decide where to go. Should he opt for the silver wrinkle-free, cotton bedsheets? Or a can of silver spray paint? The sheets he’ll be able to use again after the shoot, but they’re expensive. Five times the cost of the can of paint, even minus the twenty percent coupon burning a hole in his pocket. But if he goes for the cheaper option, he’ll have to buy new sheets anyway. No way the paint will wash out of them, and not that he would try - he’s still in the doghouse from running a pair of boots and two sneakers through a machine at the laundromat and damaging it in the process. He could abandon the bedsheets altogether and resort to his old reliable - the cardboard box. Again. Those would cost him nothing but a trip to a store.

But Timmy really wants new sheets. The two he’s been changing out every few weeks are so worn that they barely have any elasticity at the corners and a hole is visibly imminent on the blue pair. And D.O. Man did pay extra for his next video. He’s on a Barbarella fix and just yesterday ordered the last scene of what he’s coined the “Trilogy.”

 

From: D.O. Man (ilikeitweird_69@gmail.com)  
Date: October 12, 2018 2:59 AM  
To: Urdle 43 (urdle43@urdlethewhiteurkel.com)  
Subject: Urdlerella

I have a confession to make: I did not actually think that you could pull off “Urdlerella in a vacuum sealed room attacked by, instead of parakeets, a swarm of flying lips, and is nearly orgasmed to death.” I made the order in jest. Jokingly, to myself. I was certain you’d email back and tell me that it was impossible or that you’d send a video that was just, as the youth of today like to say, “a hot mess.” But I would have let you keep the money, for effort.

But it wasn’t a hot mess. You really do _rise_ to the challenge, the _harder_ it is. The transparent shower curtain that suggested the walls of the room, the mobile of flying lips above you - so many, many of them! And butterfly winged! Twee and fay and spritely, and so Urdle. And the oscillating fan that circulated them into a tornado of vibrant, kaleidoscopic colors - I gave you a standing ovation (me and my mini-me).

Your technical skills have also vastly improved. Your visual effects really did make them look like they were kissing, and licking, and sucking you, and all that good, yummy stuff.

Now, not only did I think that you could not do it, I did not expect that you would ever top (ha!) your perfect rendering of the couple imprisoned in the rock in the labyrinth where “all that is naughty is exiled.” You as the woman fondled for all eternity, in perpetuity, a look on your face as you stared at your partner (with the gorgeous ebony buttocks) that was at once blank and simmering, and one could not tell if you enjoyed it, the endless stroking of your nipples, your cock, and your hole, if you were consumed so wholly by bliss that it rendered you stunned, or if you had passed pleasure and had entered pain. An aching, throbbing, never-to-be-satisfied torture. _I loved it._

Also, very reminiscent of Marina Abramovic's use of two nude models as "living doors," reenacted several years ago at the MOMA. Imagine, two beautifully sculptured naked bodies bracketed on either side to create a very narrow gap through which the clothed were invited to walk through. Stunning work . . . and it is giving me ideas even as I type this.

And, so, it is with utter confidence that we arrive at the Finale. The close of this Trilogy: the excessive machine. The Orgasmatron, as we triple-x connoisseurs lovingly call it.

Bring it, darling. Bring it the fuck on.

Lick-lick-licking you in my dreams,

D.O. Man

 

The sheets will cling to his body. Accentuate exactly where Timmy is being stimulated and made crazy by the machine. D.O. Man would like that. And it will save Timmy work, the time it would take to manipulate the cardboard boxes and the effort to haul them back to the Bronx, and the pissed off, indiscreet subway riders who’ll surely shoot him daggers of hate with their eyes and mumble death wishes under their breath for taking up so much space. He can even swing a trip to Trader Joe’s, haul a bag or two of groceries, which would be out of the question if he opts for the boxes. He needs eggs, a carton of milk, cereal. Peanut butter, jelly, a loaf of bread, and just as he’s considering adding a bag of pistachios to the list, a nonessential but _so good_ , his stomach utters a noise so angry that Timmy thinks if he doesn’t get something to eat right now, his stomach is bound to start eating itself. There’s a Pret A Manger across the street. He can scarf down a sandwich, have a coffee, and then get back to his errands. 

The place is near deserted except for a lone student occupying a table, busily typing on his laptop. He’s come at a good time - just after the lunch rush and still hours before dinner. The sandwich shelves look newly stocked, and though he’s got the pick of the litter, his eyes zero in on his go-to, the Famous Ham and Cheese, a sandwich that’s earned its name. He has just paid, the baguette and a cookie in one hand and a hot coffee in the other, when he turns from the register and barrels straight into the person behind him, taller, broader, and so solid it’s like running straight into a wall. The coffee tilts dangerously. “Shit, sorry, shit,” Timmy says, glancing up - and all the air evaporates from the room. _No._

Armie Hammer.

Armie _fucking_ Hammer.

Three things occur to Timmy at once: 1) he is not Urdle, whose instinct is to freeze when his safety is threatened; 2) _run run run run run run run run_ ; and 3) not a thing has changed about how he feels about this man.

Breath returns to Timmy and he gulps in a lungful of it as he swiftly calculates how best he can squeeze past Armie - _who looks, god, beautiful_ \- without dropping anything and at maximum hightailing-it-outta-there speed. He’s considering faking a right when two big hands - _and, god, are they big, how had he forgotten, but he hadn’t really_ \- land on his shoulders and pull him in for a hug. He doesn’t know how he doesn’t drop the coffee right then and there, or burst into tears.

“Timmy!” Armie says, ecstatic.

He feels the same. He smells the same. And Timmy can’t help it - he leans in, inhales, savors his warmth, and it’s all so familiar Timmy can almost pretend that they’re the same. The sentiment carries to the next second after Armie pulls back and effortlessly leads him to a corner booth, and Timmy defaults automatically, unthinkingly to that old role - Timmy, the puppy, following Armie everywhere. It overtakes him, like when he’s with his parents and he reverts back to his twelve-year-old tendencies, wondering if he’ll ever outgrow them.

“So,” Armie says when they’re sitting across from each other. He looks so excited, so thrilled, and it only magnifies the contrast in Timmy. He wants to throw up, appetite and the Famous Ham sandwich far from his mind. “How have you been?”

“Okay. You?”

“Good.” 

They stare at each other, already out of words, then Armie laughs. “I can’t believe it. I was just, I'm here visiting a friend and I tried to . . . I emailed you, you know. But it came back. I only had your school address, and I tried calling, but your number changed, and I kept wondering, after - ”

After _Call Me By Your Name_ got “shelved indefinitely.” _No release date has been set for the film_ , was the studio’s official statement. After the investors pulled out. After the producers concluded that the no-name kid in the starring role wasn’t worth the controversy and a lawsuit. After the lawyer of the big-name kid with a straight-man front and a big-name beard, who Timmy sucked off against the doorway of an old Italian church, threatened to sue if they released the film. After a video of the big-name kid enthusiastically fucking Timmy’s mouth circulated to the unknown VIPs that ran the whole fucking show and, basically, run the whole fucking world. After Timmy said to the big-name kid, “why not?” - and little did he know then how those two little words would upend his life so radically. After Timmy fled from Armie’s apartment crushed and reeling straight into the arms of a three-day bender. After Armie had shoved him away, so hard Timmy fell back on his ass and so swiftly that it made him dizzy, when Elizabeth came home earlier than expected. After Armie had kissed him. Armie kissed him, after Timmy confessed. After two months of bike rides, eating gelato, lying on the grass, and napping in between takes, and at bare skin sliding against bare skin, the cameras and the crew distant impressions, and the separtion between Timmy and Elio and Armie and Olliver had dissolved.

After. Before. All of it comes back in an instant, in a whirl of sensations - sight, smell, taste, and sound. He almost hears the crickets chirping in Crema, in between the sweet silence earned by hours of talk, late at night, the sky so clear he could count every star cut precisely and dazzlingly in its fabric. He feels his heart breaking all over again. And he can’t, he _can’t_. Timmy bolts from his seat. “I can’t do this.”

Armie grabs his arm, cinches tight. “Please,” he says, desperation in his voice. “Timmy, please. I - I’m getting a divorce.”

Timmy drops back down, stunned. He falls back against the booth. “What?”

“I’m getting a divorce,” Armie repeats, louder and more distinctly.

“Because of me?” 

“Because of us - Elizabeth and me. We’re - ” He shakes his head, smiles wryly. “In the famous words of Gwyneth Paltrow, we have decided to ‘consciously uncouple.’”

“I - I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I hadn’t heard and there hasn’t been anything in the news.”

“That’s because I haven’t been in or done anything in two years - fifteen in Hollywood years. No one cares. And we’ve kept it quiet. We’ve been separated for a year. It’s been amicable. A straight fifty-fifty distribution down the line, including the kids. She’s going to stay in the house and I’ve moved into an apartment nearby. It’s temporary until I find a place in the same neighborhood or next to it. And she’s moved on. She’s seeing someone. Seems happy, and - ” He stares at his hands. “She deserves it. After what I did.”

“You mean what we did.”

“No. I lied. I didn’t know that that was what I was doing while I was doing it, but I did. I betrayed her. And it wasn’t just that - people don’t separate because of one thing. I loved her. We worked. And then we didn’t. We went to therapy, tried to fix what we thought had broken and realized that there was no broken thing. We had changed shapes, long before you and I. And - there was no realignment that could make us fit.” He reaches across the table and takes Timmy’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Timmy nods. It’s all he can do. Too much of what he’s feeling is at the surface. They don’t speak for a while and Armie holds his hand throughout. “What about you?” Armie asks, after many minutes have passed. 

“What about me?”

“How have you been, really?”

Timmy shrugs. “It is what it is. I’m okay, like I said.”

“Luca fought for you, you know. I did, too, and James and Peter. We all rallied.” The meetings and emails and telephone calls, Armie describes them in detail. How Luca had threatened to break his contract for another film. How he had threatened to abandon the industry all together. How much each of them believed in Timmy, and still do.

“Two years is a long time, Tim. That story is buried, forgotten.” And the big-name kid has since lost his big-name status and broken up with the big-name beard. “There’s been recent interest in distributing the film. New investors. They think this is the ‘right climate’ for it.”

“That’s cool.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say? Great, if the film’s released. Great, if it’s received well. It won’t change a thing, not for me.”

“Of course it will!”

Timmy releases Armie’s hand and leans forward, looks at him intently. “Do you know what I do?” Armie says nothing, but the answer is plain on his face. And the irony of that strikes Timmy, that for all that Armie went on and on about how Timmy projected every thought, every dialogue in his head on his face, how Timmy wore his heart visibly on his sleeve, a veritable open book, Armie is like braille under his fingertips. Each inflection, each nuance of what he is thinking and feeling right now, what he _knows_ , exposed to Timmy’s eyes. “Then you know that I’m tainted. No amount of reputation rehabilitation or spinning is going to make those other films I made disappear.”

“Who says they have to?”

Timmy huffs. “Are you kidding me?”

“I’m not. It’s a different world. A man who paid for sex and bragged about grabbing women ‘by the pussy’ got elected president and his wife, who posed nude in a bed of fur and in handcuffs, is now the first lady. Anything is possible.”

And it’s to Armie’s credit that he thinks, in this state at the brink of a potential nuclear wasteland, that _utopia_ can somehow sprout from it. Unicorns farting rainbows. Literally. Timmy smiles. “You’re amazing.” He means it. His idealism is so audacious that Timmy can’t resist being affected, just the tiniest bit.

“I am, right?” He pretends to be smug about it, and grins when it pulls a chuckle from Timmy. “Are you seeing someone?”

“I’m not.”

“Do you think - ” Armie hesitates, reverting back to a somber tone. A blush rises in his cheeks. “Can you and I - can we start over?”

“ _Armie._ ” Because, for fuck’s sake, it’s been two years. And though Timmy’s capacity for the unexpected has grown exponentially in that time, even this is almost too much for him.

“I know. _I know._ I’m not asking for - ”

“A second chance?” Because that’s exactly what it is.

“You’re right. I am. Or at the very least a dinner. I'll be here for another week. Or a lunch. A brunch? Brunches are big in New York, aren’t they? Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte seemed to manage it every weekend.”

Timmy laughs. “You’ve got to update your references, man.”

Armie smiles. “So update me.” He takes out his wallet, then a business card. “Here. The second number is my private cell phone.”

“You give out your private cell phone?”

“Only to family. Friends. You. I don’t carry a pen or paper, so.”

“You could just program it in their phones.”

“There’s that, too. Is that what you prefer?”

Timmy shakes his head, pockets the card.

“So you’ll call? Or text? Or FaceTime? Or all of the above?”

Timmy smiles. Again. He hasn’t smiled so much in the span of minutes, in two years. “Yes.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another shout out to etal, from whom I stole the concept of unlocking a repressed thing.

Voicemail from Armie Hammer, October 14, 2018: _Timmy, hey, it’s Armie. I got your number from your mom. Ran into her at . . . okay, I’m lying. I went to your parents’ apartment. Don’t get mad at her. I, uh, kinda lied to her, too, and told her you gave me your number and I lost it, so. So, I leave next Friday. I’d really like to see you. Let me know when you’re available, whatever’s convenient. Wherever. I’ll meet you wherever, and we can do whatever. Okay, bye._

Text from Armie Hammer, October 14, 2018: _Hi, it’s Armie. I called and left you a voicemail. Hope to hear from you soon._

Voicemail from Armie Hammer, October 15, 2018: _I know I just called you yesterday, but I got tickets for this thing tonight, a fundraiser. Thought maybe you’d join me as my plus one? I know it’s short notice, but would love it if you can make it. Call me._

Text from Armie Hammer, October 15, 2018: _It’s Armie. Last chance for the fundraiser! Let me know._

October 16, 2018: Five missed calls from Armie Hammer.

Voicemail from Armie Hammer, October 17, 2018: _I guess you’ve decided not to call, or text, or FaceTime . . . I (audible sigh). Timmy, I leave in two days. Please, I just - please call me back._

_

 

The initial feeling of euphoria that had Timmy almost buoyant after he left Pret A Manger and which carried through the next three hours of errands and the subway ride home evaporated when he arrived at his apartment. Precisely, at the cusp of the area that is simultaneously his living room, bedroom, and “office,” where reality confronted him: in shelves cramped with lube, condoms, dildos, vibrators, and rubber gloves; in broken down boxes lined up against the walls; in the crumpled shower curtain at the foot of his foldout bed that he hasn’t yet put away; in his open laptop, gone dark on sleep mode, housing emails that await him.

He could not ignore it. It would _not_ be ignored, insistent in every square space of his studio and in his ear, whispering _not possible not possible_ each time his thumb hovered over his phone, ready to connect a call or type up a text to Armie. His imagination refuses to go beyond what was, what has been, and no farther than a night or, at most, a few weeks of sex-fueled bliss. And then what? Boyfriends? _Husbands?_ The idea of them, of an _us_ , is . . . preposterous. Completely insane.

And it still hurts. All of it.

But his taste of _maybe_ , of _what if_ , now projected at the future instead of prompted by regret, has unlocked frustration that he had repressed, a fundamental loathing, because the truth is he is _sick_ of this life. He is sick of just floating through it.

And yet he has barely done more than what’s required to survive a day since running into Armie: eat, piss, shit, shower, and sleep. Lethargy has seeped in. It characterizes this place of indecision, where a call or text from Armie prompts _want_ and simultaneously repulsion. At most, he’s done a little tinkering, preparing for the Barbarella shoot. He’s had to promise D.O. Man an extra hour, at no charge - some other kinky spoof of the film that he hasn’t decided yet - because he won’t make the deadline he guaranteed.

He’s attaching rope to the bedsheets he bought when the buzzer sounds. Must be the Chinese food he ordered, because it was easier to make the call for takeout than to crack a couple of eggs over the stove. He opens the door without looking through the peephole.

It's not the Chinese food - it's Armie. Of course. Armie _fucking_ Hammer. And how many more times will he be saying that in his head?

“Hi,” Armie says, filling up the entire doorway and looking only marginally better than the man who begs for food or money at the stoop of Timmy’s building. It takes all of Timmy’s willpower not to shut the door in his face.

“Seriously, are you stalking me? What are you doing here? And how did you find me - don’t tell me my mom gave you my address, too.”

“You didn’t call. Or text. Or FaceTime,” as if that sufficiently explains it.

“Listen, I don’t want to be a dick. But this isn’t - ”

“Wait,” Armie says, holding up a hand. “Just, wait. Please. Ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.”

Timmy crosses his arms. “Fine, ten minutes.”

Armie pulls out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket, his fingers fumbling. Shaking.

“What is that?”

“My grand romantic gesture."

Despite himself, Timmy laughs. “People don’t usually announce when they’re going to make a grand romantic gesture. They just, you know - make it.”

“I’m not other people.” He smiles briefly, then unfolds the note and begins to read. His eyes stay glued to the paper. “Dear Timmy, my name is Ollie Summer. We’ve met.”

Timmy’s mouth drops open and goes dry. His heartbeat accelerates, so fast, so hard it feels like it’s going to puncture a hole in his chest. He’s hit by the same impulse to run - run fast, run hard, run far, far away - but he doesn’t. Running hasn't worked, and he wants to stop.

So he stays, leaned against the doorway and feeling faint, and listens to Armie, to his words that stutter out:

 

_You’ve known me only since I wrote to you six months ago, but I’ve known you since you were Robbie Drake, and longer, as Timothee Chalamet, and the day we met is still one I revisit constantly. I revisit and recall and relive each second of every moment I had with you, prompted initially by regret and longing, and then need. I needed you to get me through the last two years. As selfish as that is, it’s the truth. And as painful as it often was to remember, the remembering also alleviated it._

_I missed you, it was as simple as that when I first reached out to you, you as Urdle 43. I wanted new memories. Access, because you had become so wholly inaccessible. And I knew that I would not be satisfied with just one video or two, but I underestimated your impact on me. I always have._

_Your resilience pulled me out of my funk in the mornings, when I did not want to leave my bed. Your commitment to the tiniest detail, whether preparing for a scene or just _living_ , your utter immersion in it, inspired me to be present in my own life, to put down my phone, get out of my head, and pay attention, especially to my children. And you made me laugh. Loud and often, and ridiculously. _

_You saved me, over and over again._

_You made me a better person without even trying._

_Here’s what I regret:_  
_1\. Pushing you away._  
_2\. That I didn’t run after you when I did._  
_3\. That I didn’t try harder to find you, after . . . After, and right away._  
_4\. That I hurt you. I regret that most of all._  
_5\. That you doubt._  
_6\. And you don’t believe._  
_7\. And you’re afraid to hope, and trust._  
_8\. And that I contributed to that. I regret this as much as I regret hurting you._

_Here’s what I don’t:_  
_1\. Kissing you._  
_2\. That afternoon in Crema when we were eating Gelato by the lake and you had a spot of it on your upper lip and I wiped it away and you blushed, and I knew then and there that you had changed me irrevocably._  
_3\. That I was changed irrevocably._  
_4\. The smell of you on me after a full day of filming._  
_5\. My first email to Urdle 43 and every email after that._  
_6\. This trip to New York City. And I lied. I’m not here to visit a friend._

 

Armie looks up for the first time. His eyes are misty, but he manages a mischievous grin. His voice breaks when he continues, “I’m here - just a boy standing in front of another boy - ”

And Timmy breaks, too. The pieces of him that had been soldered by anger, hurt, and cynicism splinter, and they scatter, turn to joy and incredulity and sorrow and grief and hope. Hope - a faint, trembling, wobbling thing - flutters. He is broken, but mended, and if the two things can co-exist at once, then anything, _anything_ is possible.

So he laughs and he cries and he says,“Why not? Why not?” Two little words that have again upended his life.

Timmy steps back from the doorway. And Armie walks in.

_

 

Porn is gratuitous and explicit. A dick slapping against a belly, cum leaking out of a mouth, pimples on a buttcheek, pubic hair spat out, saliva dripping inside of a thigh. Gagging, queefing, squelching, and _uh uh uh uh_. Porn necessarily dissolves modesty. Makes it an occupational hazard. And so Timmy thought he had none left, that it had been fucked and rimmed and fisted out of him. But as he stands before Armie, naked, he has to fight to not cover himself, to not draw his arms around his body and contain his trembling.

“It’s just me,” Armie whispers. He is sitting on Timmy’s bed, similarly undressed. Gently, he pulls Timmy to him. He cups Timmy’s face, thumbs his cheek. “Are you okay?”

Timmy smiles. “Me okay.”

And they kiss.

_

 

They go slowly. As if Timmy has never been touched, as if Armie has never touched, as if neither has ever known the idea of a caress come to life. He lingers. “You’re quiet,” Armie remarks, when only a change in breathing tells him that a place on Timmy’s body is exquisitely responsive. Where the fleeting glance of a fingertip makes him jerk and the lengthened attention of his mouth, his tongue, makes Timmy writhe and his head thrash helplessly, and provokes a hand to clutch the sheets white-knuckled while the other clamps on the back of Armie’s head to hold him there, to never, ever stop.

And of the two them Timmy had never thought that it would be Armie inexperienced and fumbling. And that Timmy would be the one to encourage him - “like this,” as he guides Armie’s finger to his hole. Then a second, and a third, clutching Armie’s wrist until they find the nerves inside him that make his insides light up. And then Timmy releases it, because he can, because Armie learns quickly or just knows to curl his fingers, to stroke _there_ and to keep stroking until Timmy is mindless from it.

He is sweet when he penetrates Timmy. Careful, as if Timmy hasn’t been fucked a hundred times. Gradually, as if Timmy hasn’t been pounded past consciousness.

But his girth shocks the breath from Timmy’s throat. _This is real._ That _knowing_ locks in place, realigning them. And he lets go, finally.

Later, Timmy wakes to the sensation of a finger tracing the shell of his ear. He does not open his eyes, but he smiles. “How long have you been watching me?”

Armie traces his lips. “For as long as I can remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her." - Notting Hill, and so cheesy, but it got me, and apparently Armie knew it would get Timmy to.


	7. Chapter 7

EPILOGUE

The plan had been that Armie would assume the role of Durand-Durand - the villain who orchestrates Barbarella's death by sex machine - off camera while, on camera, Timmy wriggled and squirmed and tossed his head on the bed-turned-sex-machine, pretending to be orgasmed to death.

“I can play the evil scientist,” Armie said over a plate of Eggs Benedict at a popular brunch destination in the Upper West Side, casually - too casually, which Timmy realized later in retrospect, but at the time processed _like: no biggie_. Like, Daniel or Ansel could totally still play the role, if that’s what Timmy wanted. Which Timmy took on face value, because why wouldn't he?

“You could, but you leave tomorrow,” Timmy said around a mouthful of omelet. “And I can think of better things to do on our last day together.” At least six things to be exact, all of it involving Armie’s oral fixation, a delightful discovery that had only hours before teased Timmy back to the waking world by its slavish attention to Timmy's tender testicles.

“I’m not leaving tomorrow. I changed my flight.”

Timmy raised an eyebrow. “Really? Are you also staying indefinitely, Julia Roberts? Inquiring minds want to know."

"Ha ha, no. But I’m yours for another week.” And for another several weeks in a few months, then the schedule would repeat a few months after that, and so on and so forth. Armie lifted a forkful of home fries to Timmy’s mouth. "Open."

“Mmmm!” Timmy said. “You’re right, that little bit of ketchup and tobasco does _elevate_ it.”

“I did not use the word ‘elevate.’ I would not have used the word 'elevate,' because ketchup and elevate do not belong in the same sentence. If I remember correctly, what I said was ‘it’s yummy, Timmy, you should try it.’”

They had continued their banter on foodie terminology, then after brunch promptly returned to Timmy's apartment, where they dove straight into the six-part act starring Armie's oral fixation that Timmy had artfully conceived in his head - including one that involved Timmy squatting above Armie's mouth while Armie lay on his back ("it's called teabagging," Timmy gasped informatively). They followed with a three-part encore that extended to hours and hours of Timmy indulging Armie's fascination, aka obsession, with prostate play.

"You are the man of my dreams. My knight in shining armor. The other half of my heart. _You_ complete _me_ ," Timmy had panted after the sexathon, delirious and stupid, and it was just about the only thing he could do after being fucked sideways, upside down, folded like origami in the bathtub, and under the desk, where he spied a piece of gum stuck to a corner. Fucking Ansel.

Armie had laughed off Timmy's sex-induced professions of love. But he was smug. And possibly on viagra because two seconds later they were back at it like bunny rabbits.

As it turned out, it had indeed been a biggie to let Armie play Durand-Durand, made evident the morning of the shoot when he excitedly dumped an armload of props on Timmy's bed. Synthetic gray hair and cosmetic glue to mime the bushy eyebrows of Milo O'Shea, the actor that played Durand-Durand. A lab coat - obvious. And a device to camouflage his voice, which continued to mystify Timmy through Armie's enthusiastic explanation of how it would make the role more "believably wicked" and up until Armie mumbled under his breath something about a long-held childhood fantasy regarding Darth Vader, "who, in my opinion, was totally misunderstood and fuck those prequels, I didn't bother after five minutes of watching even Ewan Mcgregor, decent actor, reduced to delivering lines like he was an autoplay.”

But filming had been a disaster. Each time Armie said his lines, camouflaged so he sounded like the whistleblower of some huge corporate misconduct and was the shadowy figure being interviewed on national television, he delivered them so dryly that it heightened the camp factor beyond even Milo O’Shea’s rendition.

“Sonata for Executioner and Various Young Homosexuals,” he would announce as he started the sex machine, in his Darth Vader-voice while wiggling his caterpillar eyebrows.

“It’s . . . sort of nice, isn’t it?” Timmy would reply in wide-eyed wonder as Urdlerella as the sex machine began to molest him, a repressed giggle away from a helpless fit.

“Yes. It is nice . . . in the beginning. Wait until the tune changes . . . When we reach the crescendo, you will die . . . of pleasure.” And then he burst into a cackle so over-the-top evil that it sent Timmy into hysterics each time. Timmy shook uncontrollably and laughed so hard he cried, but it was not the kind of shaking or crying that D.O. Man paid for so they were forced to film separately.

Armie had been disappointed. He still harbored some nostalgic infatuation with being on film simultaneously with Timmy, another do-over opportunity Timmy suspected. But fucking Timmy on camera was obviously out of the question - openly. Visibly, that is.

On Timmy’s third take, Timmy motioned for Armie to leave his post on the sidelines where he had been cheering Timmy silently, so sweet but so sad. When Armie was within reach, Timmy grabbed him by a sleeve and pulled him onto the bed, then promptly planted Armie's head between his legs. The silver sheets billowed up on a shake and fluttered back down to cover them both - Armie entirely and Timmy from the waist down.

“Get to work,” Timmy directed.

And Armie did. He put that oral fixation to good use and damn any refractory period. No sooner had Timmy come - so explosively that his eyes rolled back and his teeth rattled - than Armie’s tongue was right back at his hole or his cock lapping. They had no need to spray water on Timmy to suggest how sweaty and spent and thoroughly debauched the machine made him. He was genuinely reduced to a babbling, hiccoughing mess - “Aaaaaaarrr,” he would start, voice pitching higher to a wail, and remembered just in time with what was left of his brain cells to not scream, “ARMIE!”

“Aaaaaaarrrgh,” he managed instead.

During editing, Timmy finally saw the appeal. The outline of his skinny body under the sheets and Armie’s mountainous bulk covering half of it. The gyration at his hips, his wrists pinned to the bed as securely as if they had been fastened there by handcuffs (Armie Hammer, the bondage king, who knew?), and his head tossing about. It _was_ inspired. Kudos to the genius of D.O. Man, and indeed it was also the gift that kept on giving: a mere thirty minutes into his technical review, Timmy was yanked from his chair and tossed over a broad shoulder in a frighteningly (arousingly) barbaric manner. Armie, who had been hovering behind him, had better ideas. Eight, to be exact. All of which involved Timmy twisted like a pretzel, but none under the sheets. Each was executed in plain sight, with the lights on after dark, so Armie could see Timmy in all his glory.

_

 

Voicemail for Daniel Kaluuya, October 22, 2018: “Dan, hey, it’s Timmy. I, uh, was wondering. That loan that you offered me a few months ago - um, the one you keep offering me? If the invitation still stands, I . . . I could use the help. I mean, I’ve _needed_ it, just. You’re right. This is one thing I don’t need to keep being stubborn about and I’d appreciate it. I, um, appreciate you, a lot (audible coughing). Also, that friend of yours, the hacker who does consulting for Google, you think you could hook me up for some . . . lessons?”

_

 

From: D.O. Man (ilikeitweird_69@gmail.com)  
Date: October 24, 2018, 3:03 AM  
To: Urdle 43 (urdle43@urdlethewhiteurkel.com)  
RE: Urdlerella

Urdle:

Magnificent job. You’ve rendered me speechless - quite a feat. I’ve never seen you more immersed in a role, wanton and believably in the throes of prolonged sexual torment. Though I suppose I would be, too, if I had those large, very large hands roaming my body and molding and manipulating me as if I were made of clay - thank you for choosing _that_ scene, the unconscious Barbarella being groped by the blind angel, Pygar. I don’t know who your new friend is, but you have quite amazing chemistry with his hands. And the video is a perfect addition to the collection and, as I had agonized over whether to order that scene or the ambush-by-parakeets, I have been made complete.

I confess that it’s not just your stunning work that has left me . . . bereft. So, you will no longer be producing explicit material? Tis a sad day in the wonderful world of pornography. I don’t know that I’ll find your rare combination of beauty, talent, nerve, stamina, and depravity again. I will miss you.

What will you be doing to stay busy? Never mind, not my business. You have given me many, many hours of titillating entertainment and for that, I thank you. Should we meet again in the dark recesses of the internet, please call me -

Larry

_

 

“Larry?” Armie says, turning away from Timmy’s iPhone to give him a look of utter surprise. “He does not order porn like a Larry.”

“Exactly. Like, _Larry_ would order, I don’t know - Deep Throat Schoolboy. Schoolboy Does Dallas. Schoolboy Gangbang Part Nine. Not ‘schoolboy caught in a web made by a giant spider, stung immobile, and _used_.’”

“Is that - that’s from Lord of the Rings, isn't it? Except for the, well, ‘used’ part?”

“Yup,” Timmy replies, nodding. Then he shakes his head. “Larry . . . I expected him to be named, like, Regulus Cornelius Dippledybottom Krumwhich the Third, or something like that.”

“So, like a Harry Potter character?”

“Yes! Oh my god! That would make so much sense!”

Armie looks at him strangely, but doesn’t ask him to elaborate. Instead, he says, “Just goes to show - never judge a Larry by his cover.” Armie puts down Timmy’s phone and reaches for the bag of pistachios lying on top of the shelf next to the bed. Timmy intervenes and slaps his hand away. “Ow!”

“I told you - no eating in bed.”

“You’re the one that leaves shells everywhere!”

“Not in bed!”

“Fine,” he grumbles. He turns on his side to spoon behind Timmy. “So, you’re retiring?”

Timmy nods.

“Not because of me, I hope. I meant it when I said - ”

“Not because of you,” Timmy interrupts. He laces his fingers through Armie’s and lets his silence on the matter speak for itself.

“Good,” Armie says. He shifts again to roll on top of Timmy and settles between his legs, slings one over a shoulder. His breath is _hot_. “Now, about this ‘no eating in bed’ rule . . . .”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how Peter Jackson couldn't seem to end Return of the King and so he gave us, like, 50 endings? This is sort of like that.

EPILOGUE II

 

Approximately one month later:

From: Urdle 43 (urdle43@urdlethewhiteurkel.com)  
Date: November 16, 2018  
To: (Blind List)  
Subject: Resale Videos and Changes in Pricing

Dear Loyal Customers,

Thank you for your continued support - without you, there would not still be an Urdle 43. It is solely because of you that my business continues to exist and thrive, and I am grateful that you continue to choose me for your custom videos when you can just as easily go to another custom-video provider. I will continue to give you my best performance and look forward to, hopefully, many, many more orders from you.

As you may have already read on the website, starting November 30, 2018, the following changes will become effective:

  * All videos will be made available for resale unless it is agreed between me and the customer that the video will be for exclusive use.
  * Videos that are not for exclusive use will be priced at a flat rate of $12.50 per minute for the first twenty minutes and $10 per minute for every minute after that, which includes basic materials such as cardboard boxes, paint, twine, rope, and similar items.
  * Videos for exclusive use will continue to be priced at a rate of $20 per minute for the first twenty minutes and $12.50 per minute for every minute after that, which includes basic materials such as cardboard boxes, paint, twine, rope, and similar items.



In light of these changes and to show my deep appreciation for each of you, attached is a coupon that is good for up to five videos. You must place your order before November 30, 2018. You may also choose when to receive the videos, in a lump delivery or on a staggered schedule. Please go to the website for the approximate days I require to make a delivery.

A few of you have asked whether I will be resuming making sexual content - no, I will not. But I will continue to make shirtless and partially nude videos.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Please remember that all videos sold to you, whether resold by me or for your exclusive use only, may not be reproduced or distributed without my permission, and that doing so would be a violation of copyright laws. Distribution does not include viewing the video with persons other than you where no money, consideration or other financial gain is received from that viewing.

 

Then:

From: Cherry Bomb (sodaismyguy@gmail.com)  
Date: November 17, 2018  
Re: Resale Videos and Changes in Pricing

Francis Ford Coppola did a shit film adaptation and that television series was a waste.

Thank you for your email and the notice on your website. Decent of you. You could have just changed your terms without warning, which has been my experience with less reputable custom-vid suppliers.

Also, smart move on deciding to resell. I personally don't mind it and I mind it even less that you're charging less for that option - win-win for both of us.

Incidentally, I had an Outsiders viewing party a few weeks ago and all my friends agreed that your performance surpassed all of the actors in the movie and television series, and definitely the other (shit) custom-vid actors I tried before I found you. They will be thrilled to know that you will be making your non-exclusive videos available for general consumption. A few tried their best to persuade me to "distribute" mine. S, in particular, tried to bribe me with a photograph of Rob Lowe as Sodapop that was signed by him decades ago. As if. S and I share this obsession, but she is not as discerning in her taste.

I have a proposal: what do you think of reselling the past videos you've made for me? As I’ve mentioned, you already have a market for it. In exchange for credit for future orders, which obviously I would not expect until you've sold a video. We can discuss details if you're interested.

In the meantime, I’d very much like to take advantage of the coupon. Here is my order:

You will again be in the role of Johnny Cade and the scene: the Dairy Queen parking lot, where Johnny tells Dallas that he’s decided to go to the police and confess to the murder. See pages 71-77 of the book, particularly:

  * Johnny gorging on barbecue sandwiches and banana splits. He is _hungry_. I want to see that. Viscerally. Make him pitiful.
  * Johnny’s reaction to Dallas saying, “Ya kill ‘em with switchblades, too, don’t ya, kid?” I have no notes on this - I’d like to see what you do, the choices you’ll make.
  * Johnny “quietly finishing his fifth barbecue sandwich,” then announcing, “‘We’re goin’ back and turn ourselves in.’” He’s resolute, but scared, and I’d like to see how desperate he gets when he’s trying to convince Dallas that it’s a good idea.
  * Johnny’s reaction to Dallas telling him that his parents didn’t ask about him: “Johnny didn’t say anything. But he stared at the dashboard with such hurt bewilderment that I could’ve bawled.” Make _me_ hurt.
  * And: “Johnny just sat there and stared at his feet. He hated for any of us to be mad at him. He looked awful sad.” Gut me, Urdle. Gut me so that I bleed.



 

Then:

From: Hunter College (tuition@hunter.cuny.edu)  
Date: December 1, 2018  
To: Timothee Chalamet (tchalamet95@gmail.com)  
Subject: Thanks for your payment

Payment Date: December 1, 2018  
Total Amount: $2,360  
Number of Credits: 8  
Method of Payment: Visa

Your confirmation number is BL973ODW3981001.

For any questions regarding your courses, please contact Registration.

This email address cannot accept incoming emails. If you have any questions, please email support@hunter.cuny.edu. This message is not intended for dissemination and its contents are confidential. If you are not the intended recipient of this message you are instructed to discard this message and notify the sender.

 

Then:

From: D Kaluuya (kaluuya@dantheman.com)  
Date: December 27, 2018  
Subject: Mission Accomplished

Yo, Timbo! Happy birthday, brother! My gift is attached. You’re welcome.

I don’t know why you couldn’t get past the firewall. We’ll look at what you did next time I’m over. But maybe, you can also just leave this business to me and Marvin? It’s fine to keep asking for help, man. No one minds except you.

See you at the party tomorrow night. You will be drunk, bitch.

 

Then:

Date: January 3, 2019  
Re: Balloon Popping in Boxer Shorts - Cease and Desist Notice

I received your Cease and Desist letter. I have removed the videos from kinxrus.com. I reaffirm my agreement to all of your website’s terms and conditions, including that I will not again reproduce or distribute your work in any manner, now and in perpetuity.

Please kindly do not tell my wife and co-workers about my orders.

 

Then:

From: Armie Hammer (ahammer@hammerentertainment.com)  
Date: January 4, 2019  
Re: Balloon Popping in Boxer Shorts - Cease and Desist Notice

Holy shit! Daniel, wow, did he deliver. Remind me to never piss him off.

I get it. I understand why you feel guilty for sending the notice. But, look, this man stole your intellectual property and you have a right to protect it. Besides your threat was just a threat (he doesn’t need to know) - you’re the sweetest, most harmless, sexiest would-be hacker there ever was. Put your guilt to bed. He’ll get over the scare.

Yes, I think you should go to that audition. If the commercial’s a success, that means residuals - steady income stream. Don’t worry about whether “to act or not to act” - one day, one step at a time. It’s been working for us, hasn’t it?

I close on the new house in two weeks - thank goodness. The process has been a nightmare. And my lawyers are filing the divorce settlement in court by the end of this week. The judge has to sign it, which I’ve been told is just a formality. So much, so fast, all of a sudden. My brain (and heart) is still digesting it all.

And thank you for _my_ custom video, you tease! I can’t wait to have all of _that_ in my mouth again.

Talk soon when our time zones are better aligned? Tokyo is insane.

Good luck on your first day of school! Don’t talk to strangers! Unless they’re ugly and not a threat!

 

Then:

From: Luca Guadagnino (luca@littleminx.tv)  
Date: March 17, 2019  
To: Timothee Chalamet (tchalamet95@gmail.com)  
Subject: Release Date for Call Me By Your Name

Dearest Timothee,

I just saw your beautiful face on a yogurt commercial as I was getting ready to start typing this email - what an amazing coincidence! I could not believe it. Armie has said that you are doing well and it seems that you are - good, I am glad.

He has told you that a tentative date has been set for the film, yes? And you are “still on the fence.” I understand. The investors are insisting that we proceed without your agreement. We do not need it, they keep telling me. But I don’t care about them. They need _my_ agreement, and I will not give it to them if you do not also agree.

It is okay if you don’t. If you change your mind or get off that fence, you will let me know, okay?

Be happy, Timothee. You deserve it.

 

Finally:

From: S P (smsp48@gmail.com)  
Date: July 1, 2019  
To: Urdle 43 (urdle43@urdlethewhiteurkel.com)  
Subject: Thank You

Hi, you are probably surprised to hear from me. I don’t have an order this time around. I am writing simply to say - thank you.

I don’t know if you’ll remember, but today marks eight years ago when I wrote to Cheryl. It was a milestone in processing my grief and I have made it a holiday of sorts by celebrating and acknowledging every person that has contributed to my healing - "The Reanimators," as I like to call them. People like you.

My ex-wife also sends her thanks. Neither of us will ever forget your generosity for returning her payment and allowing us to duplicate your video for no charge. She also printed out that sweet note you sent with the refund and carries it with her.

You continue to be a salve, a light, and a friend.

I wish you all the best, Timmy. Your parents must be so proud.

Sincerely,

Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The more time I spend in the world of custom porn, the more I can see how much the producers and their clients have in common: they're all working out their issues together by producing these sweet, strange films." - Jon Ronson, The Butterfly Effect
> 
> Three things:
> 
> 1\. So very sorry to disappoint you Luca-is-Larry fans, but alas, he is not. But, if Luca did make orders to Urdle 43, I imagine they would be in the same vein, even if just to fuck with Timmy.
> 
> 2\. Thank you to all of you who gave this fic love. And to you lovely commenters - you resurrected a sense of community that I haven’t experienced since my fic-writing days at livejournal. You made me miss them. As I do not tumblr at all or social media much, all fandom interaction I get is here at AO3, so thank you, thank you, for being so warm and welcoming, and especially cheerleading this story!
> 
> 3\. I cannot promise anything, but Urdle 43 might entertain a request from you, even of the explicit variety. If you’re interested, leave your order in the comments and I just might be able to talk him into filling it. If he does, lookout for a continuation.


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